


The Case of the Scented Killer

by gandalfthesassy



Series: Whishaw!Holmes [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, the case of the scented killer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gandalfthesassy/pseuds/gandalfthesassy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A murder had just been committed in Dublin; it would be my first case with Sherlock Holmes, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it would be one of the most important." A few days after moving in with Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Johanna Watson announces on her tumblr that she is the detective's new companion and will be taking cases. The very first message that the army doctor receives is from a desperate man looking for justice for his boyfriend. Accepting the case sends the two new acquaintances on a mission from Ireland to Scotland Yard and back home again. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson will never be the same. </p><p>Holmes's faceclaim in this version is Ben Whishaw, who has appeared in The Hollow Crown as Richard II, Skyfall as Q, and Perfume: The Story of a Murderer as Jean-Baptiste Grenouille (the title character with hyperosmia, or an acute sense of smell). The fact that Ben Whishaw's character in Perfume had an acute olfactory sense is a coincidence. </p><p>Unless otherwise noted, all characters in this story were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and this writer's adaptions are original, but the idea of the characters belongs to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Geoff's Message

A murder had just been committed in Dublin; it would be my first case with Sherlock Holmes, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it would be one of the most important.

I opened my laptop the morning that the investigation began and was just about to get on Twitter when I saw a message on my tumblr. Yes, I have a tumblr, but I only talk to people who we can trust - Holmes can deduce how trustworthy people are by the language they use online. If only more people had that power...

I wasn't sure if I could trust this person or not, but hey, I'm an optimist: why not give them a chance?

It was from a user with a fandom url (most of them were, but this one was witty). It read as follows: 

_“Dear Dr. Watson --_

_It all happened so suddenly. When my boyfriend Neil and I went out to a fancy restaurant, Déjà Vu, in Dublin, we were having the most wonderful time. Then I heard a gunshot. I flinched and turned to remark to Neil but he'd passed out. When I saw the faces of everyone else pointed at our table, I realized that he was dead. He'd been shot once in the back when the police arrived. I haven't stopped crying since. If you decide to take the case, we live at--”_

I was about to read the address when a voice snapped me out of my visualization. “Ireland? That's a distance away.” 

I nearly leapt out of my skin! But I looked to see that it was Holmes, standing behind me, for some reason only wearing pajama bottoms. “Yes, but not nearly as far as from west to east in the United States.” 

“Really?” Sherlock walked over to his chair. 

“Yeah. The whole of Europe is smaller than North America.”

“Geography is not my strong point, Watson.” 

“I know that very well,” I chuckled lightly. “Well, we have enough money from my inheritance to pay for the trip there and back.”

Holmes leapt up. “Good. Pack your bags, Doctor, we're going to Ireland!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sta.sh writer (on deviantART) is a jerk. The formatting was messed up, so I can't queue the chapters. Oh well. This took a long while to write. I tried to stay as close to canon as I could, but I couldn't help straying and adding originality to it. And trust me, this is one of the shortest chapters. Be ready to read a lot, if you value Sherlock Holmes mysteries. If I seem a bit muddled in this story, I've never written a full-length mystery before, so I apologize.
> 
> Eheheheheheheheh.


	2. Arrival in Dublin

We arrived in Dublin at noon. I nudged Sherlock awake as we pulled into the airport. An hour or two later, we found ourselves in front of a country house. It looked vaguely familiar. I knocked three times sharply on the door. The user and I had agreed that this would indicate our arrival. 

The door slowly swung open minutes later. I knew exactly who the man was; I suppressed a scream of delighted surprise. Were my theories true? Was this man, Geoff Lorelei, in cohorts with this Neil, who I guessed was the infamous Neil Odrey, who was a well-known film actor? Was this the same Geoff Lorelei who was playing James Bond at the time we went to see him? 

It couldn't have been. 

I mentioned his url before saying: “We're here about Neil.” 

He swallowed and nodded, donning his best smile. “Of course, Mister Holmes, Dr. Watson. Come in.”

It was definitely Geoff Lorelei and Neil Odrey. It couldn’t have been anyone else. 

We walked into a quaint little vacation home. I heard weeping in the living room. It became louder as we followed Lorelei in and saw a middle-aged woman sitting on the couch. “Geoffrey,” she whimpered. The actor sat next to her as we stood across from them. 

“This is Mrs. Odrey,” Geoff explained. “Neil and I were visiting her. His father's elsewhere. Belle, this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.” 

“Where were you when Neil was shot?” Sherlock asked respectfully. 

“I was on a date with him, right across the table,” Geoff answered immediately. 

“At Déjà Vú,” I nodded. “I remember that from your message. Do you remember what time?” 

“About, oh…seven-thirty at night.” 

“And you, Mrs. Odrey?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

“I-I was here with his cousins, playing music while Geoff and Neil were on a date,” Mrs. Odrey explained. 

“Can anyone prove this, Mrs. Odrey?” 

The mother's grieving look gave way to annoyance. She breathed through and opened her mouth to speak, but I jumped in: “We'd just like to clarify, Mrs. Odrey. There are other ways to know if you were here if Neil’s cousins can’t.”

This seemed to calm her down enough. “Yes. Claire. Claire O'Leary can clear me. She stepped out for a while…when she came back, she seemed distraught…” Grief filled her eyes quicker than tears. 

“This has been hard on Belle,” Geoff said, which I could tell was code for “You need to leave”. I shot a knowing look at Sherlock and we stood and went to the door.

“Just one more question,” Sherlock spoke up as Geoff opened the door. “Do you wear cologne?” Geoff began to answer, but Sherlock left. 

“Sorry,” I shrugged. Geoff held a hand out to stop me. 

“Dr. Watson,” he whispered. “Would you be able to keep the press away? If word gets out, I could be ruined. Not about my being gay, I mean…if people start talking and think that I did something.”

“I'll protect your identity, Mister Lorelei, though I doubt your fans would consider you a killer.” I left the house and caught up with Sherlock down the street. “Why did you ask him that question, Holmes?”

“Didn't you notice that he smelled of roses?” Sherlock noted. I shook my head dumbly. “He did, after all. Don't you know your cologne, Watson?” he scoffed. 

“I don't wear it myself.”

“But you do know what scent men seem to be most often attracted to, correct?”

“Vanilla, I believe,” I blurted. 

“Most do, yes.”

“If Neil liked the scent of roses...”

“Geoff would have bought cologne with a scent that matched his tastes, not a generic scent that men are merely said to like. After all, the two were together.”

“But how do we know if Neil likes roses?”

“Watson, the only reason a man would wear a particular cologne is if they were interested in attracting a partner.”

“I understand, Holmes, but how do you know he likes the smell?”

“He told me.” 

I stopped in my tracks. “You met him?”

“I met his perfume bottle, sitting on the bureau. Unmarked, but when I passed by it on the way out the door, it gave off the same scent that Geoff did. Coincidence? Unlikely.” 

“Then we should find where he got that perfume.” I always felt 5 degrees dumber when Sherlock gave one of his long, fast-talk explanations of his strategies. But we can't all deduce at the speed of light. 

“A fortunate coincidence! A friend of mine happens to have hyperosmia,” he explained, walking into a small perfume shop on the way back to 221B Baker Street. 

“A heightened sense of smell is a good thing to have for a perfumist,” I nodded. 

“I prefer the term 'scent expert',” a stout, bald fellow stood up from behind the front counter. “Mister Holmes!” he exclaimed in a half-Irish, half-Liverpoolian brogue. Then he noticed me and raised an eyebrow. “And who might you be?”

“Mister Olfactor, this is my associate,” Sherlock explained with a hint of jealousy, perhaps warning. 

“Dr. Joey Watson,” I smiled politely and stuck a hand out. Mr. Olfactor shook my hand firmly. 

“Seamus, please,” he replied. “Good to meet you, Dr. Watson. Though you aren't a hospital doctor; if you smelt of soap, you would be.”

“What do I smell of, then?” I glanced at Holmes, who seemed proud. This was one of the rare times Sherlock showed any genuine positive emotion. 

“You're wearing a standard masking scent, as many normal people would, but your clothes smell faintly of detergent, so you've just washed them. You're rather clean, Watson.”

“Well, thank you.”

“And you smell also of roses, but it is faint. I can trace it back to...” Seamus took in a deep breath and smiled serenely before opening his eyes again. “Your hands. It was either from scented soap or someone else's hands.”

“That's actually what we came to ask you about,” Sherlock broke in. “We're investigating a homicide and we noticed one of the suspects was wearing the scent that rubbed off on Watson's hands.”

“We have reason to believe that he wore the scent for his boyfriend,” I said delicately. “A fellow named Geoff Lorelei; brown, swooped hair, brown eyes, childish smile...” I snapped out of a potential reverie and could feel Holmes' eyes on me, but I didn't understand why.

“Ah yes,” the old hyperosmiac smiled knowingly. “The lad came in, desperately unsure what to do. All he knew was that he wanted to smell of roses. His boyfriend liked the smell.” Olfactor crouched behind the counter and continued: “So I helped him select just the right cologne to truly delight the man's lover.” He stood up and now held an oval bottle with dark pink liquid inside. “He came in, oh, three weeks ago.” 

“The bottles are identical,” Sherlock remarked to me. 

“And do you remember when he came in?” I requested. 

“I wouldn't have the time unless I looked through my sales book...” Olfactor shook his head and chuckled. “And even then, I might've gotten it wrong!” I glanced around and saw no surveillance cameras. 

“Still, would you look?” I asked gently. “I'm sure you want us to find justice for Ne--Geoff's boyfriend as much as we do.”

“For a lass such as yourself, of course,” the man smiled and reached beneath the counter. He opened the book, scanning with his eyes for a moment before he uttered an “A-ha!” 

“What time did you sell the perfume, Seamus?” Holmes said with urgency. I glanced at him. What was he so worried about?

“Ah...2:30pm, lad, two Tuesdays ago...” Olfactor said. He looked up and stopped short. As he looked past Sherlock, he muttered: “Good day, officer.” I turned to see a blonde mustachioed policeman. 

“Good day, Seamus,” the officer greeted simply. His nametag proudly displayed a rather plain name, Gregson. “Are these two bothering you?”

“Not at all!” the old man became merry and suddenly transformed from a wizened gentleman into a Santa Claus-like figure. This sudden change was remarkable for a non-actor. “I was rather enjoying their company.”

“Are your names Dr. Johanna Watson and Sherlock Holmes?” Gregson turned to me, then Sherlock. We nodded in unison. “I've orders to bring you to The Met.”

“Scotland Yard?” I whispered in amazement. One does not simply go to the Yard every day, after all. (In England, the Met does not mean the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It's short for the Metropolitan Police Service, or MPS.) 

“Yes, Dr. Watson,” Gregson stared at me with disinterest. I probably appeared naïve, and being an American didn't help this impression either. 

“What about our luggage?”

“It's being brought back to Baker Street. Everything will be intact.”

“Given that it's Scotland Yard, don't count on it,” Holmes muttered to me. 

“Well. Take us to your leader,” I couldn't help grinning. Gregson cuffed Holmes and me before shoving us out the door into a police car. “I've always wanted to say that,” I smiled at Sherlock as we drove off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was interesting to write...setting things up. Of course, unlike Agatha Christie, we have not been introduced to the killer yet...mwahaha. Take a good guess, kids...they'll show up eventually. And I've tried to include as many canon characters as I can. Turns out, Gregson and Lestrade are rivals. I thought it'd be funny if Lestrade was a big shot and Gregson was jealous of him but won't do anything to ruin him...yet. Also, Baynes is one of the few characters that the original Sherlock Holmes genuinely praises, so I wanted to include him in this (and I made Baynes a girl because I felt women needed more representation in the story, given how many male characters there seem to be other than Watson). I had to look up some stuff about Scotland Yard. Turns out it's colloquially called the Met. So, okay, figured I could do that. But I still sometimes call it the Yard 'cause it sounds more menacing.


	3. Scotland Yard

When we came into Scotland Yard's headquarters, it was somewhat underwhelming. Given that the only impression of the Yard I had was from a scene from the Beatles movie “Help!”, my expectations were outrageous. Gregson led us down a long line of detective desks with high-tech computers. 

We reached the front office. Gregson knocked on the door. It swung open slowly. I heard the rustling of a paper box before a voice called, “Come in.” And so we did, only to find a man who was not much older than Gregson, who couldn't have been over forty-five. 

“Gregson,” the grey-haired man at the desk greeted stoically. 

“Lestrade,” the younger led us in before leaving and closing the door abruptly. I exchanged a look with Sherlock. 

“Office rivalry?” I wondered out of mild curiosity. 

“Something like that,” this Lestrade shrugged. “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” We each shook his hand. He gestured for us to sit in the seats in front of his desk. “Scotland Yard has heard much about you, Mister Holmes.”

“So we're in trouble?” I barely spoke up. Lestrade glanced at me. 

“You're not, Dr. Watson. But, according to my records...” Lestrade leaned forward and read off a series of files. “You are guilty on several accounts of aiding and abetting a suspect--” 

“But they weren't convicted,” Holmes sighed and sat back, crossing one leg over the other. 

“You've been guilty of distribution of illegal substances...”

“Not tobacco. I had my rights. You only interfered because Inspector Jones is an imbecile.”

“You've consulted with a convicted felon.” 

“And?”

“And you've resisted arrest.”

“Any normal human would do so.”

“You have no idea what 'normal' is.”

“Can we put aside the fucking petty arguments?” I cursed loudly. Holmes and Lestrade turned to me in surprise. I cleared my throat. “Gentlemen, there is a dead body and no name to the killer.” 

“Right,” Lestrade sighed. “The Met has asked to excuse these various charges if you'd be willing to assist them on a case, which you seem to already be investigating. So you can either stop with the case or continue under our jurisdiction.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “And why would I obey a lesser--”

“I think we can establish some cooperation,” I interrupted hastily. Holmes sighed but appeared to resign from criticizing Lestrade. 

“Great,” the detective inspector nodded. “If you'll follow me...” He stood and went to the door. “I'll have you meet the detectives you will be consulting with.” He stressed 'consulting' distinctly. We got up and followed him out to a sterile and mostly silent precinct. 

At one of the desks was a blonde woman with her hair up in a ponytail. She was wearing navy slacks and a red ruffle-collar blouse. When she saw Lestrade, she scooted backwards in her desk chair. Then she noticed Holmes and me and stood up. “Hello, gentlemen,” she greeted us formally. 

“Inspector Baynes, meet Mister Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Johanna Watson,” Lestrade introduced us. 

“Joey, please, and I'm not married,” I clarified. Baynes shook Holmes' hand and then mine. 

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock also corrected, noticeably ruder than I had. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson,” Baynes smiled. “And Mr. Holmes, good to meet you too.”

“They'll be consulting on the Odrey case,” Lestrade reported. “If they step out of line, don't hesitate to tell me.” He walked away briskly, leaving the three of us to our devices. 

“Sorry about Greg,” Baynes apologized, going over to the murder board. We turned towards it and saw it was somewhat sparse. “He's secretly a film fanboy, and Neil Odrey--well, was--one of his favorite actors.” 

“It's a tragic day for everyone who knew of him,” I agreed, “and knew him in person.” 

“Well, we’ve not gotten very far…I only hope you two have recovered something better.” 

“We may have a lead, actually,” Holmes spoke up. He reached up and gestured to one of the faces on the board. “This is Mrs. Odrey; she’s deaf in one ear and has difficulty breathing through her nose.” The blank look I gave him prompted the detective to explain: “When we spoke to her, she seemed to understand me better than you. Geoff was seated on the side of her good ear, which is why she heard him loudest. Her nostrils didn’t flare up in reaction to anything, and when she took a breath to answer your question, she breathed through her mouth. She couldn’t be the killer.”

“How does that prove that she’s not the killer?”

“We’ve done a bit of digging, Baynes,” I picked up, “and we’ve discovered something from speaking to Neil’s boyfriend, Geoff,” I pointed to the man’s profile picture on the board. “He wears cologne. It’s not any regular cologne or cheap perfume. The scent is of roses.”

“Only a man who was trying to impress someone would wear a specific scent,” Holmes continued. “And we found it at a particular store in Dublin. That might be a lead.” 

“That’s a good point,” the blonde detective nodded. “So he buys a specific scent of cologne…does that get him killed?” 

“Highly unlikely.”

“You don’t kill someone just because they have perfume, especially when the stuff is available for everyone.”

Baynes turned to one of the detectives sitting at another desk. “Edward, could you look up the staff working at…what was the place called?”

“Olfactor’s,” Holmes told her. 

“Olfactor’s in Dublin and see if any of them have records? Also check and see if they had any connection to our victim.”

“Got it,” the middle-aged detective nodded and turned to his computer, typing faster than me when I was in an online argument (which is rather fast, but I’ve never been clearminded enough to calculate my specific words per minute). 

“So this…killer would not have known Neil’s preferred scent?” 

“Perhaps they do,” Holmes suggested. 

A lightbulb went off in Baynes’s head. “Considering that he was a celebrity, he could’ve had a deranged fan.”

“Wouldn’t they have known what scent Neil prefers?” I wondered. 

“Not if they didn’t get close enough to him. There’s only so much a person can learn about someone else. But they would do anything they could to get his attention…though they wouldn’t do it perfectly. So our killer might be someone with a restraining order. But then why would they kill Neil? Why not Geoff?” 

“They had the mentality of ‘if I can’t have her or him, nobody can’,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Ordinary people can be bothersome sometimes,” he muttered under his breath, but I heard him clearly. I nodded slightly. He had a point; normal people have their faults. 

Suddenly, Edward spoke up from behind his computer: “Baynes, I’ve got something.” The three of us raced over to him and glanced over his shoulders. “It appears that a few people work at Olfactor’s…one of them, a Miss Gina Wilhelm, has had a restraining order filed against her from…would you look at that, Neil Odrey!” 

“We should go and question Miss Wilhelm,” Holmes ventured. “Find out her alibi, et cetera, et cetera.” 

“Of course,” Baynes agreed, moving quicker than she was before. I’d only seen inspiration strike creators, such as writers or musicians, but never had I seen it strike a woman of the law before. I smiled. “Holmes, Dr. Watson, would you like to come along?” 

“Actually, Watson and I are going to prove a few suspects innocent.” I blinked and looked up at the brilliant genius who’d just stopped me from riding along with a professional detective. Nice one, Holmes. 

“Watson?” 

“Y-yeah,” I swallowed my annoyance. I preferred working with Sherlock, however nice Inspector Baynes seemed to be. “I’d better go with him.” I glanced at the man for some recognition or approval, but I got none. He brusquely spun to face the elevator and walked away. I mouthed ‘sorry’ to Baynes and hobbled after my partner out of the Met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't really have any notes for this one. Except the whole film fanboy bit was my idea. Bossy Sherlock is bossy.


End file.
